Poisoned Truths: Book 2
by Virodeil
Summary: For NaNo Camp April 2013: Book 2 of 7: How to hide a big secret from he who can detect even the smallest? Why torture and assassinate when clean death can achieve the same? How to live with loved ones on peril of unwitting murder? But really, the question is: What does one prize most? Because there are always paths, priorities and consequences. And Morzan's answer is … unexpected.
1. 0: Story Information

Title: Poisoned Truths  
Author: Eärillë

_Story Information_

General Rating: PG-13  
General Warnings: alternate universe, confusion, dark themes, mature themes, odd behaviourism, sensitive topics, violence

Story Summary: Who was Morzan before the Fall? What was he like? Who is he now and what is he like? People say that history is written – or told – by the victors, and that one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter; does it apply too to the faceless monster that we know now?

General Genres: Action, Angst, Character Study, Drama, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, SciFi, Stream-of-Consciousness, Suspense, Tragedy, Vignette  
General Characters: Ajihad, Barst, Birgit, Brom, Cadoc, Delwin, Elain, Enduriel, Eragon II, Evandar, Fadawar, Formora, Galbatorix, Garrow, Gedric, Gertrude, Gilderien, Glaerun, Horst, Islanzadí, Ismira, Jörmundur, Kialandí, Lifaen, Linnea, Loring, Marian, Morn, Morzan, Murtagh, Nadara, Narí, Nasuada, Niduen, OCs, Oromis, Quimbi, Rhûnön, Roran, Selena, Sloan, Shruikan, Tara, Trianna, Tornac

Fandom: _The Inheritance Cycle_  
Universe: Book-verse, Rey-verse

Story Notes:  
* The story is divided into 7 small books for 7 different stages in Morzan's later life until his death. Original characters and characters you might have never thought could be related to each other play a big role here, so please beware and please refrain from reading more if you are not inclined to read about either or both; the former category is partly necessary and partly desired, while the latter category is fully that of my own habbit and inclination whenever I involve myself in a fandom – and I have been writing fanfiction stories for _The Inheritance Cycle_ for almost 7 years now.  
* The story is a rough first draft until I have finished _all_ 7 books, since I have the bad habbit of neglecting things, being too lazy to continue, or being too anxious to continue. Please bear with mistakes and gaps and odd things or phrases; but please don't hesitate to point such things to me, as I _shall_ edit the story some time. If the mistake is great enough, however, I shall put it to right immediately, and I shall thank whoever has told me about that most profusely. I am not a native speaker of English: my English has improved over the years (you might freak out if you read my old things on SF3) but I am still learning so much even now, so undesired things are bound to happen.  
* The summary for each book alongside the name of the beta-reader(s) who help(s) me with the story (if there is any), the range of ratings, Warnings, genres and characters (both canon and original) are listed before the beginning of each book. But after each chapter in the book, the current rating, warning(s), and word count alongside the current time and location are listed for easier tracking without spoiling too much about the content of the chapter itself. Also, this "Story Information" section will be present before each book just so that readers have ample forewarning.  
* The point of view, genre, time and location – as well as the word count – can shift rapidly, sometimes extremely, from one to the other. Please beware, and please pay attention to things listed below the title of the book. (They are not just stuffy decoration, after all.) Additional Note: The current name tagged in the chapter title is the indication of from whose point of view the mentioned chapter is, hence the often-repeated "chapter names;" and there is only one point of view per chapter anyway.

Author's Notes: I'm sorry: for now, I am posting the fic here just as a precaution if – God forbid – it is lost before the finish of this mad race to 50K, in the end of the month. Please feel free to rant, butcher, or ignore it, but also please keep in mind that is is a _first draft_ and I shan't tweak it by any means, just keep ideas, until after April is over. Still, I hope you'll at least moderately like it. Oh, and just another warning: abundance of fluff, strangeness, and twistedness – and perhaps confusion too.

- Rey

_Book 2_  
By: Eärillë

Book Summary: Morzan has a secret, a big secret; and he has a pseudo-uncle who is too possessive, too powerful, too commanding, and too demanding to deny any secrets to; but he _must_. Worse, the Varden are moving actively now; and even more wretchedly, he finally finds and _recognises_ who the founder and ex-leader of that group of rebels is, and the person is still _alive_. Meanwhile, back in the hidden stronghold of the Red Rider, life must go on for those who are left waiting for the master of the odd home to return – for it is a home now, indeed. And when the Red Rider is home, there is another enemy to fight against … an enemy from inside himself.

Range of Ratings: G to R  
General Warnings: mature themes, nudity and intimacy (unrelated to sexual acts), odd behaviourism, sensitive topics, torture, vicious thoughts and actions  
General Genres: Action, Angst, Character Study, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Horror, Suspense, Stream-of-Consciousness

Canon Characters: Ajihad, *Angela, Brom, Enduriel, Formora, , Galbatorix, Glaerun, Jörmundur, Kialandí, Morzan, Nadara, Tornac, Trianna  
Original Characters: Alna, Ezeva, Dorran, Írill, Minnha, *Nalyar, Dorran


	2. 1: Morzan

Poisoned Truths  
Book 2  
By: Eärillë

1. Morzan

Rating: G (K)  
Warnings: confusion  
Genres: Action, Character Study, Framed Story  
Word Count: 1,371

Morning, Day 24 of Summer, Year 74 of Second Age, Year 874 of Human Age  
_Hill by Morzan's Stronghold, Northwest of Leona Lake, Foothills of the Spine_

Roaring, raging: confused, frightened, blindly longing, not knowing. She thrashes within the confines of the magical cage I put her in both for her safety, mine, and the rest of the people living nearby. So alien, so pitiful, so … not like her at all, the sister-twin that I knew and loved and cherished. It is worse than death, for a Rider, that his bonded partner cannot recognise him enough not to hurt him on first sight. It is worse than death that the sacred link is almost nonexistent now, all nearly severed by the abomination that was the Banishing of the Names. (How not? She does not even know that _she_ _is_ _a_ _dragon_, despite my various and constant attempts to tell her that yes, she is very much one.)

It has never become easier, every time I need to contact her, every time we need to go somewhere, do something. It is not easy even now.

In a way, she is still there, still here with me – dark-rich-red, glossy scales the colour of fresh blood in sunset, dark ruby eyes, swishing tail equipped with pinkish white spikes that I loved to tease her about, ivory-white curved, serrated talons and fangs which have always looked fearsome even to me – but in most ways, in the important, essential ways, she is not. No name, no type of being, no memories, no intelligence, not even the wisdom of her race as she no longer knows to which race she belongs.

Settling down, growling but settling down at last: recognising me perhaps, a little. But why does she not approach? I am standing just within the magical cage; she would usually approach me by now, sniffing me, recognising that I am not a threat, that I am a part of her family. But she is only standing there, several yards away from me, in the small crater of tilted earth that she has yanked out in her agitation. No more a dragon; dumber and wilder than a maddened boar; not recognising, drowned and drowning in full anonymity: my sister-twin, the other half of my heart and mind, the other half of my spirit and soul.

I walk towards her, slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly, right hand outstretched, hoping she will recognise the mark, the bond, _our_ bond, bond of love, bond of trust, bond of family –

please please please – what is wrong, Sister? Painful, so painful: wish I could help you, soothe whatever is making you so uncertain, so afraid –

But I cannot access her mind, cannot even strengthen the link between us, when she is again drowning deeper into the abyss where no sense of identity remains –

Please do not go there do not do not do not – come back come back please I need you love you want you here need you here – you are _mine_ – I am _yours_ remember? Remember? You are _my sister_, beloved sister-twin; we are always together, never apart. Tell me? Tell me? Say something? Send an image? I have lots and lots and lots of the fun things and the dumb things we went through together, but last time it made you so wretched so I shall not send anything like that to you again – but please, please _Sister_, what is wrong?

My sight swims. My gait falters. But I do not care. So near now, so close, warm breath on my face and chest. Reach out, meet scaly nose.

Hot-cold blast of energy in my veins. I yelp, she yelps; she strikes the ground with one forefoot, I fall down, sprawled at her front feet, pinned down painfully by a clawed foot.

Wild, wild, wild, wild presence in my mind, whirling, raging with confusion, with pain, with recognision, with sorrow. Recognises the energy, a little of the bond; recognises my scent, my look, my hand; recognises … something else …

"Né'a," I tell her: choking, heaving, writhing under the onslaught.

Growing rage, growing longing, yearning, to two different parties – she claims me, claims my mind, my body, my soul, blankets me in a too-full, too-eddying vacuum space, strangles me unwittingly – I panic, yell, plead to her, plead for my mother even –

She stops.

She stops abruptly.

She stops and goes limp: her body, her mental presence: world-weary. She presents me with a vague message of blurry image dominated by the colours of brown and green and distant touch of female human arms, distant scent whose intimate familiarity I share with her.

I choke on my breath, my tears, my renewed grief.

Of course! Né'a did not only raise me; she raised my sister-twin too, when I was seven and became the youngest Dragon Rider in the Order's history by accident. She taught the both of us, protected the both of us, cared for the both of us, until I was eight and we could be safely presented to the Order at large since eight was the youngest age of a human Rider to have been chosen. Her foster father became my master then, for reasons of safety and secrecy and comfort.

So, unknown to most and unlike most apprentices, we went home whenever Masters Oromis and Glaedr had nothing for us to do, and thus back into the care of Né'a and Ré'a.

And dragons have a strong memory of parents, especially of their mothers, and I am now witnessing the fact that, just as she remembers my scent, she _does_ remember the scent of my – _our_ – mother.

I wonder if she remembers Ré'a's scent, or Mother Talita – her egg-mother …

No no, too painful, too hopeful, must not keep a high hope, must not let any of us dream; reality would be too bitter to bear then.

`_We need to go_,` I tell her, reluctantly. `_I promise I'll bring Né'a here after we're home again._` I do not – cannot – tell her that Né'a is less than a mile away, probably rearranging the bedroom or wandering inside the fortress; she will just storm in there and all that I have planned before will be in ruin and Né'a's presence here may be leaked out to undesired persons if I tell her now. Now that she is not so confused, so animalistic, so angry, however, it is so _hard_ to conceal such a thing from her; I really, really wish to share my newly-regained contentment with her.

No, but not now. Now we must report to Urû'baen as required at the start of every season when there has not been any assignment given beforehand, that will be otherwise given during the report time, or none at all. But contrary to all other times where battles and missions could dull the aches and loneliness left by a large portion of my sister-twin and the other members of my family, now I hope I will not be given any assignment, so I can go home quickly.

I slip away from my sister-twin's slackened grip, sigh, scramble for her saddle reluctantly, wish I – we – did not have to go, wish we could reject any possible assignment that might be given later. But that would bring _him_ right to the doorstep of my holding, and I cannot afford that, cannot afford _him_ taking away Né'a from me, from us.

I put the saddle around her, tell her of things I wish us to do before and after we visit the Capital, try to distract myself and her from thoughts of Né'a and home and reunion, plan to take a bath and another change of clothes before we have audience with _him_. He must not know, _must_ _not_.

… So sad, Rainya, so sad. I bet she loves you still and misses you so much. You are her favourite brother; you will always be, in the deepest part of her mind and heart, I would wager my right hand for that. If only you were – if only we were – if only …

I sigh, shudder, close my eyes. No use for what-ifs.

Climb up, tighten the straps, slouch down, ask, "Ready, Sister?" And just like that, she takes a short running start and jumps into the morning air, flapping her wings.

No words, no emotions. No joy, no sorrow. Just … numb.


	3. 2: Minnha

Poisoned Truths  
Book 2

2. Minnha

Rating: G (K)  
Warnings: everyday drama  
Genres: Action, Character Study, Drama, Framed Story, Friendship  
Word Count: 1,813

Morning, Day 24 of Summer, Year 74 of Second Age, Year 874 of Human Age  
_Kitchens at Morzan's Stronghold, Northwest of Leona lake, Foothills of the Spine_

I do not like it. People stare strangely at me now; they no longer like me, care for me. People liked me, and I liked them back. Even Lord Morzan liked me, taught me to read and write, taught me to "exercise the brain" he said, asked me to do important things and many of them to be done in his secret wing no less. And then in turn I taught Írill, my best friend and only age-peer at once all that I had learnt from him, for he never said I could not share the knowledge with anybody else.

But now Írill does not want to speak with me, just glares at me and gives me dirty looks whenever Mother Brinn is not looking; and unfortunately the both of us have been tasked to wash the dishes left from breakfast time, and there is only one sink available as the other is still stuffed up, so we are forced to work side-by-side. I am feeling quite lonely and lost now, and I do not like it either.

And it is _all_ because of _her_, that weird woman-girl Lord Morzan brought home from nowhere injured and all-passed-out three days ago. To think that I was so glad and eager when he put me in charge of taking care of her when he was gone afterwards! She must have put some magic on him, for he did not seem pleased that I was there, while he had ordered _me_ to be _there_ before she woke up and messed it all up. Perhaps she had her filthy unnatural friends ambush him too, for he went home all battered and bruised and broken, quite unlike when he had bidden me farewell and set out to wherever he had gone. That evil witch –

Írill nudges my foot with her own without looking at me, still busy washing an apparently-stubborn smudge on the underside of our only one, huge, iron pot for making soups and stews. Then I hear it myself.

"Minnha! How many more moments shall I lose just calling for you, brat?"

Mother Brinn, and she is quite cross with me, and seems like she has been calling me for a while now. (She does not boast or lie or make up things usually, sometimes too direct and honest and strict that she scares me silly; like right now, in fact.) I wince.

"Yes, Mother Brinn?" I reply meekly, turning around from the plate I have been drying – the _already-dry_ plate I have been drying …

She glowers at me, mitten-clad hands akimbo on her apron-clad hips. She just glares for a long moment, and I cannot help but fidget.

People are so hostile to me now, yes, and I hate it. They blame me for why Lord Morzan was furious at us, for why Keyl and Rodyth and Narlin and Kile and Daimur and Onid and Solothin and Elwyn and Sean and Damus were nearly gutted by him, for why he forced us to swear in that weird shivery, unnatural language. But he _threw me out_ and it was all because of _her_! I must save him from her and the only way was by asking for _them_ to check in on him and spirit him away from her if necessary. I do not know how to wield a blade after all; Lord Morzan only taught me to fight with a stick, and I doubt a tree-branch would do harm to her. (She could just burn it with magic or something else of that sort.) Why cannot people understand that? It was not my fault too that they just _barged in_ to the chamber like that! Of course Lord Morzan would be furious with them; he seems to prize it that nearly nobody knows anything about his wing, let alone _that_ chamber, and those fools just barged in. (I bet they did not even knock at the door before entering the chamber.)

They made him mad, and he hurt Grandma Eva because of them, and now I do not even know if she is alive or not, and I do not know if Lord Morzan still likes me because he did not even spare me – or anybody else for that matter – a glance when he went out in his fine, polished armour and with the scary red sword belted at his side to the hill just now. And it is _all_ –

"Minnha!" Mother Brinn snaps out my name. I flinch, look up, step back, bump the hard wet edge of the sink – a mitten-clad hand grasps at the collar of my blous and yanks at it, shakes me, chokes me.

I squeak. She is _terrifying_ now.

"Hear me girl," she hisses close to my face, cannot duck away, step back – "whatever you do, wherever you do it, don't create any problem that the Master will sniff at. Do you wish to get us all killed?"

My eyes go blurry: warm, heavy, squeezing. "I didn't!" I cry out. "I swear I didn't! Can't you see? She's evil! We need to get rid of her. She's poisoning the Master! I was just – "

The other mitten-clad hand slaps at my mouth. I yip in protest.

But now I notice how _silent_ it is here: no sound of people talking, no noise of cleaning and washing, no footsteps: _too_ silent.

Shocked silence, terrified silence.

And now I see how wide Mother Brinn's eyes are, staring horrified at the middle space.

"Mother Brinn?" I whisper: squeaking, panicky, trembling.

She lets go of me abruptly, trembling herself, now I realise. But why?

I look around, afraid of what I may find soon, but cannot help it, cannot help try to find out, try to see what has gotten everyone so mute and frightened.

Something – someone – is not supposed to be here; there is a face I do not recog –

_Her_ face! It must be _her_ face that I am staring at! She must have changed a few of her features, but I know that it is she, standing at the doors to here, the 'clean kitchen'. The runty woman-girl is _here_ – but since when? Did she hear – no no no no no no _no_! If she tells Lord Morzan or bewitches me into a toad or something without his ever knowing before he ever comes home –

She is staring back: small wicked green eyes looking into my own, perhaps reading my mind, reading my thoughts – I look away, a bunch of curse-words running through my mind, towards her, towards myself, towards Mother Brinn, towards my dolt friend Írill, towards – no no no no no, I cannot curse him; he is my _master_!

And then she _smiles_ – she dares – the witchy woman-girl!

"Might we know who you are and why you are here, good mistress?" Mother Brinn asks. The head of the kitchens; she has got the right and responsibility to ask, to question, to throw the trouble-making, unnatural woman-girl out of here and perhaps even out of this place.

"I am much acquainted with the master of this place," she – that witch – replies so easily, so confidently, and I cannot even hear any smidgen of a bragging tone in her low voice. "But as for my name and relation to him, you should ask the Lord himself, not me. It is on his discretion that I am here, and it is on his discretion whether you shall know of me or not."

Arrog –

"May I please speak with Minnha, though?" she continues I gasp and flinch. What does _she_ want with _me_? Will she really be changing me into a pest or a termite even?

"Might I please know what for?" Mother Brinn, thank all the gods, does not appear too thrilled about it –

"If you wish to be guided in a tour, good mistress, could you please wait until some time before lunch? Because I shall be needing her for lunch preparation soon. We have so many mouths to feed, good mistress, if you could understand my meaning."

– Oh, I have spoken – thought – too soon. But why does she say _that_? Surely she knows that woman-girl is _evil_? Why is she betraying me, selling me away to that solceress?

And the woman-girl is nodding, consenting, asking Mother Brinn to send me to outside Lord Morzan's wing when I am done with my chores. And she is _agreeing_ with _her_.

I gulp, swallow, gag. Feeling so wretched, so scared, so lost, so alone. Wish Lord Morzan were back here, seeing this, saving me, telling me I should not comply with that woman-girl, taking me somewhere else, even for one of those tideous writing exercises with Tornac.

But Lord Morzan is not here, and the woman-girl is _temporarily_ gone, and Mother Brinn is staring sharply at me – sharp as the row of knives Lobinn and Regis used to slaughter and dice up that cow that we had four days ago.

"Don't be fooled, girl," she says lowly to me, but her words seem to be directed to all of us that are gathered here, still silent and stiff like statues. "She said nothing of it, yes she did, but I've got a sense there's something old and special between her and the Master. I'd give my right hand for that. So whatever she wants you to do and wherever she wants you to go, keep your runaway mouth shut and keep that saucy tongue of yours tied up, or the Master'll skin you alive. Now just pray she won't tell him about all those things you shrieked about her just now, eh? At least now don't involve us in one of your schemes. The Master knows what he's doing; don't meddle in what you don't know. Didn't that grandmum of yours ever teach you that, girl?"

My cheeks warm up rapidly. Angry, just so angry, so _humiliated_, so _betrayed_. But she is turning away, barking out orders, and Írill is dragging me back to washing the endless dishes.

Hurt, it hurts so much; so lost, so alone. Wish Grandma Eva would be here: she would defend me … perhaps … but she is not here and probably – _no_!

My hands are trembling too much. The wet ceramic plate slips from my left hand, struck unintentionally by my rag-wrapped right hand, falling to the damp floor, shattering –

"Minnha!"

She is so angry now, Mother Brinn is so angry. Must go, cannot be here, they do not want me here. Mother Brinn does not want me here. Írill probably wishes I had been skinned alive by Lord Morzan, and the others –

Rushing behind me, hands scrape at my back lightly – I shake off the damp rag, dodge the hands, lope over the shattered plate, dash towards the doors to the kitchen, go, run, just run, do not know where.

Just … away …


	4. 3: Alna

Poisoned Truths  
Book 2  
By: Eärillë

3. Alna

Rating: Soft-R (Soft-M)  
Warnings: confusion, dark thoughts, glimpses of gruesome death, memories of character death, sensitive topics, moderate violence  
Genres: Action, Character Study, Dark Fluff, Framed Story, Horror, Tragedy  
Word Count: 1,112

Morning, Day 24 of Summer, Year 74 of Second Age, Year 874 of Human Age  
_Rose Garden at Morzan's Stronghold, Northwest of Leona Lake, Foothills of the Spine_

Orri left.

Orailesk left me quite early this morning, only after two hours of – hurried, whirlwind, bittersweet – reunion filled with outer silence as he cuddled into my embrace and I snuggled around him and our minds related jumbled thoughts, images, sensations and snippets of words to each other, and now I am feeling quite wretched and worried – worried _for_ _him_ – and wondering if he will come back, if he will come back to me, if the-man-that-used-to-be-Áltor will trail after him without his knowing or with his permis – _no_! no no no: he told me _he_ will not get within a mile from here without my knowledge; he promised me, assured me, shared the key of _all_ the wards, the sphere of shields that he then drew rather awkwardly for me on a piece of used scrap parchment which had before that been crumpled on his desk, just as he was hastily changing his clothes (ah, it was one amusing sight that I did not realise how much I had missed it), just before he knelt and gave me a huge bear hug that could have popped loose all the bones in my upper body, put the back of my right hand with an intense-but-brief pressure against his brow, allowed me to kiss his brow in turn,sniffed my neck, then fled the room as if a Shade had been after him.

It was … I feel pathetic now, pitiful and piteous. People will tell me the same thing, if they know, and they will probably hate me too, or at least look down on me.

But Brom is going to hate me, most probably, and he might just inspire his ragtag group of new friends and acquaintances and sympathisers to pursue a new, nearer goal: end my life.

Brom has … changed; even more than Orailesk, now I realise. But I … can understand it, a little. Orri – no Morzan – no no, not even him, just a _shell_, _a pair of_ angry, lost, grief-and-horror-maddened _shells_ – were there when Glaerun and his dragon killed his Saphira without doing anything to prevent it from happening – but then why did that pair of fools have to come to _their_ aid? Those elves _sneered_ at us humans in peacetime, and only now that they were being on the verge of defeat and death did they turn to us for help, because they _did not know_ how a human's mind and body and spirit worked, and the two leaders of the so-called Forsworn were – _are_ – _humans_. Why did they not heed Father and Glaedr and refrain from participating in that bloody massacre? They were still so young, innocent, _ignorant_ of the gielded lies elves could utter if they so wished. And then he laid _all_ the blame on _him_.

But but but losing a dragon is …

I shiver. I curl up on the sun-warmed ledge of stone and shiver uncontrollably. The sun is bright in my eyes, bright and merry, but I cannot feel it. So cold, so empty. Enn – my Elëanna, my beautiful, sly, perky, mischievous, adventurous silver sister …

Red, all shades of red in my field of view, and white too, drenched by the yellowish rays of the morning light; beautiful but thorny.

Blood bathed everything, muscles and bones laid bare to the open air, prickly, sharp scales dead and useless, a useless defence, let alone offence.

Elëanna.

It was ridiculous, so ridiculous. We were just so tired, and Enn did not see where she was going, just wished to get down to the ground for a moment before she went back up again with me. But she tilted too much to the right and the _same_ pair of _shells_ were battling with two elven pairs, and a red tail knocked her off course, nearly snapping her neck, dazing the both of us terribly anyhow.

And then Kialandí and Formora and their dragons were upon us, clawing and tearing and biting and slashing at us when we were so helpless as if a quartet of vultures on bodies laid rotting in a battlefield.

And then _she_ was _dead_.

And we were falling, falling, falling to the blood-soaked and charred ground: her mutilated body and the pathetic runty Rider clinging to what was left of her neck and shrieking histerically. And then I was suddenly in _his_ arms: not-my-brother-but-still-my-brother, hair was black and flat and with odd facial structures now somehow but eyes still wide and green-blue as the wide ocean beyond Vroengard under the afternoon light.

And he, too, was gone. But I was guiltily and painfully thankful of that, and I still am now.

But _she_ _died_, _she_ _is_ _dead_.

Groping, fumbling, searching, desperate, so desperate, feverish muttering, spell, password – found it, found it, found it: the pendant, the _Star_, the burden he dumped onto my shoulders before he fled to Edoc'sil with Vervada and Rogginth – that _traitor_ – left Umaroth's body on the burnt, blood-soaked, limb-strewn field: _dead_, too.

Clutch the pendant, feel the blunted sides dig into the sides of my hands and my fingers, feel the warm pulses of energy course underneath the diamond-smooth, diamond-hard surface, feel the weight, the _chain_, the thing that just cannot let me die, follow Enn, _go away_.

He knew me. He knew me too well. He knew I had nothing to live for. Enn and Dee and Emm were dead, Tor and Orri and Brom and Árnoth and Reilinvosk were not themselves anymore, Ídeith was dead, Voskairen had been stolen and warped beyond belief, Mother was gone, Father was gone, just like so many others – my family had been _shattered_ into too many little pieces. He knew it and forbade me to die (But what right did he have?!) and gave me this accursed thing – forced it on me – and insisted that I lead the survivors and asked me to stop battling and hide till the time was right –

Damn you, Master Vrael; I do not know why I still go on, but you must have known me _too well_, more than myself ever did or do. And now you are _dead_, too.

Too empty, too tired; I wish I could follow them, go away.

But Orri is here, Orri is here, still here, still _mine_. He promised he would come back as soon as possible, tonight at least. He promised he would come _home_ and we would be _almost_ like before again.

Almost …

He is different now. I am different too. Now we are all too much like those roses with their deadly thorns, protecting their treasures jealously.

But even the thorniest roses can fall when faced by a strong, sharp blade …


	5. 4: Minnha

Poisoned Truths  
Book 2  
By: Eärillë

4. Minnha

Rating: G (K)  
Warnings: mild sensitive topics  
Genres: Action, Character Study, Drama  
Word Count: 1,300

Morning, Day 24 of Summer, Year 74 of Second Age, Year 874 of Human Age  
_Rose Garden at Morzan's Stronghold, Northwest of Leona Lake, Foothills of the Spine_

They will not find me, not now; not ready, not ready to face them again – their new selves.

Fresh air, green span, the scent of fading dew on grass: the gardens; I am on the grounds, in the gardens: good. Nobody would think to find a maidservant here.

Then again, not everybody like flowers or plants that much that they would stroll around the gardens … Besides, there are certain areas of the gardens that Lord Morzan forbids everyone to enter, even me, and I suppose that makes people feel reluctant, knowing of the extreme privacy he sets up. I would not come here myself if Lord Morzan were home, would not dare to.

Still, I look around fertively and scuttle across the open spaces of lawn that separate the gardens from each other, taking much much much care in stepping on the stepstones only so that nobody could track me down so easily. I wish Lord Morzan were home now so they would not be so openly hostile to me like that; but then again his attitude to me – and to us all – yesterday scared me silly and I have not fully recovered from it.

Step one, two, three, four, five, six, seven – ahead is the rose garden, if I am not mistaken. I like those beautiful flowers. Sadly I cannot hide anywhere there; I hate those thorny bushes that the blooms perch on. But the roses themselves always look awesome and majestic … kind of like Lord Morzan himself, actually, I have got to admit, however thorny and unkempt they can seem otherwise.

… uhh … am I accusing the Lord of being 'thorny' and unkempt?

The horror! If Mother Brinn or Grandma Eva knew – if _he_ knew –

I shudder.

How if Mother Brinn reports to him about me running away from the kitchen when he is home, anyway?

I wince, halt completely, look wildly around. Not good, not good. I did not think about it this far. I have got to go back and apologise to Mother Brinn at least, hope she will not tell Lord Morzan or punish me too heavily.

And just my luck too: there is already somebody occupying the garden before me.

Somebody _undesireable_.

Mother Brinn called me saucy and impertinent and all those things. Well, she has not seen how this _midget_ does things, eh?

She is curled up on one of the stone benches in the garden, this one placed in a clearing of blood-red roses, Lord Morzan's favourite spot in fact as far as I can recall – that _witch_. Midgetty, wicked, slippery, impertinent, fork-tongued, unnatural, solceress girl pretending to be a noblewoman.

She seems to be crying; good for such an _evil_ creature; she deserves _more_ than that even, in my opinion. She has taken Lord Morzan from us, from _me_. And now Lord Morzan is gone, and she has the castle to herself. Does she think she can lord over us now, eh? She must be bemoaning the reality that she is _not_ the master of this place.

If I had the words, I would have spewed them forth to hopefully _really_ put her in her place. Magic cannot solve everything. Not even Lord Morzan does everything with magic. And she is _bewitching_ _him_ – ! But there is nothing quite fitting for such a foul creature. And Mother Brinn's warning is still hot in my mind too: I ought to be careful, or she will tell Lord Morzan and then he will skin me alive. Gah!

But he is not here now anyway …

I stalk towards her in the most confident manner possible, want to impress her somehow, want to tell her that I am not to be underestimated. I hwish I had that long, smooth, hard wooden stick Lord Morzan gave me when I began learning about staff-wielding five years ago with me now; I would have some form of defence then, although I know it is not enough to combat against solcery. (But at least then I would have a tangible weapon on hand.)

But it seems that, despite my best efforts, I am failing miserably. She does not react as I approach her, only lifts her head up (Depressed? Bored?) from her folded arms – which lie on top of her drawn-up knees, quite unladylike and surprising to me – when my feet finally touch the grass, having no more stepstones to walk on.

But now I _see_ it: there are fresh tear-tracks on her too-rounded cheeks, and her small wicked green eyes glisten with more of it, and they are puffy and red-rimmed too as if she has been crying softly but continuously for a long while now.

She looks … lost: so sad and so wretched and so lost, just like myself actually, if I could cry right now. But between the two of us, she is worse, I would say: she does not seem to recognise me, as her expression is too blank for any sign of recognition that I know.

It just … I just … I no longer have any desire to punish her. She is looking beyond punished to me. She … I …

I turn around. I do not want to be here any longer. I do not want to see her, do not want to hurt her anymore, do not wish to know how old she is and who she is actually – because her eyes look and feel so _old_ and so _broken_. Lord Morzan sometimes got that look on his own face: fleeting usually, but I noticed it still; and then he would bar himself within his wing for the entire day or night, sometimes staying so for several days; and then he would drink more, rage more, train us all harder in our respective areas, whisper something in that shivery, unnatural language while walking from gate to gate and fence to fence and room to room and passage to passage, and command us to practise the escape exodus that he has planned for years for his entire staff from what I have heard even if we had just practised it the week before as opposed to once every season. Will she - ?

A hand, cold and weak and trembling and a little smaller than mine, grasps at my right wrist. I squeak and turn back around, my heart pounding.

Green eyes meet mine: now clearer, sharper, older, younger – "Stay with me," she says, whispers: like a small girl, like an old woman – "Stay, Ídeith."

Ídeith.

I am not _Ídeith_. Who is she? – I am Minnha, just Minnha, daughter of none, granddaughter of Ezeva the Forgetful.

But I cannot deny it, cannot go away while she is a wreck like this, cannot leave her behind and go back just to be punished and do nothing worthwhile in the end. Mother Brinn said that there is something special and secret – and old, rooted, now I am beginning to see – between Lord Morzan and this girl-woman: I shall just have to help her as I would Lord Morzan then.

And perhaps, later, I can find out if she has truly bewitched Lord Morzan into kicking me out just like so much garbage yesterday, while he has always treated me almost like … like … a … relative.

Ídeith? Was she – is she – ?

Later, later. I might ask her later. Might not dare to ask Lord Morzan, but if there is a chance – later, later.

I sit beside her on the sun-warmed stone slab, try not to fidget, try to see only the thorny rose bushes with their blood-red blooms before us instead of her lost, desperate expression.

Both are beautiful on their own rights, and just as thorny; but at least roses do not show thoughts and emotions.


	6. 5: Morzan

Poisoned Truths  
Book 2  
By: Eärillë

5. Morzan

Rating: G (K)  
Warnings: none  
Genres: Action, Character Study, Dark Fluff, Framed Story  
Word Count: 2,787

Afternoon, Day 24 of Summer, Year 74 of Second Age, Year 874 of Human Age  
_Throneroom at the King's Palace, the Citadel, Urû'baen;  
Side-Chamber at the King's Palace, the Citadel, Urû'baen_

I can now appreciate what Rainya Tor did for _all_ his Riderly life just to be with us, the family that he adopted for his own but the bunch of people that his master – in the too-true sense of the word – hated with all his might. Hiding one _single_ secret is so _hard_, let alone warping one's identity by one's own will just enough to slip out of the leash of true-name bondage. He taught me how to do both and more, but I can do only a smidgen of them. Hiding secrets was the one I never exercised among all that he taught me, never had to, but now I am forced to do it by utmost necessity, and I am sick with the anxiety of first-time bad luck.

Because I shall _never_ get another chance. There is no second chance.

The guards to the throneroom look at me with fear: a usual occurance, a cold comfort in my current … situation. But I have neither the will nor the intention to sneer at them this time.

I take a fertive breath, then ask, "Is the King inside? I wish an audience with him." If my sister-twin were her old self, she would boost my confidence – try to, at least. But I am alone in reality, and the fantacy of her presence just widens the twisted void inside my soul that used to be she. And as my "Forsworn title" is announced by the usherer, my mind is fully absorbed in the horror to think about anything else.

I stride numbly into the vast, dimly-lit chamber. The heavy golden doors shut with a final-sounding thump, but I no longer have the mental energy to wince. The horrors and humiliation of my childhood, 'tested' and belittled openly by my 'father' in this very chamber in front of his court, are pale compared to the sheer near-physical pain and primal terror of being aware that the half of your very being is pure madness and no longer has any identity whatsoever. And given that I have been doing this ever since the Empire was formed, I no longer have to think of what I am doing or what I am saying: it is all just a routine. I am free to wallow in misery.

I halt before the throne and, ignoring the few courtiers that seem to be always present in the chamber, bend one knee and bow my head with a fist laid flush against my chest to the person sitting on the throne several yards – and several steps up – away in front of me. "Sir, here for my report and assignment, Sir," I hear myself say, distantly, although my voice seems to be ringing on the distant corners. (The last time I called him "Your Majesty," he sent a rather large shock of electricity to all over my body, and since then it has become almost an instinct for my mind to avoid mentioning that title to him by myself, even in the rare jests we indulge in.)

It is so silent now, totally mute, but I cannot care less about it. But amidst the numbness, terror of another kind begins to impinge on my consciousness, one that was dwarfed by the reality of my red-scaled sister-twin just now, which is resurfacing because of how eerily similar the present situation is to the countless verbal and mental tortures I experienced here during my childhood and teenhood, even after I became a Dragon Rider.

I cannot help it. I tremble; can only hope that it is hidden underneath my travelling cape and loose outer garments. Feel so cold, so stiff, so numb with terror.

A familiar-but-foreign scent fills my nose. A hand just a little smaller than mine grasps my right shoulder in a powerful grip. I look up but do not rise from my kneeling position. (I doubt I would be able to stand for long, or even at all, right now.) Deep black eyes meet mine, strangely-sharp with a mixture of pain-induced insanity and acute intelligence, set in an unfamiliar visage, framed by straight, lanky black locks. I flinch inwardly, just as I always do ever since he changed his features – bit by bit, slowly but surely – to forget himself, to forget everything, to flee from the horrors and traumas that we suffered together, that he cannot shake off no matter what. (But of course, if I were somehow in his place and I were forced to eat the flesh and drink the blood of my sis – _no no no no no no no_!)

"Come with me," he says – not even his old voice any longer, not his tone – but there is something there now, something that echoes what and how he used to be to me.

I obey. But I am obeying my uncle Áltor now, not the King.

It … comforts me, somehow, lifts the shroud of numbness and terror a little bit.

The side chamber is familiar, bare – with only two green upholstered wing-back armchairs and a side-table in it – but the room itself signifies privacy; and the presence of _only_ him with me is a comfort – a cold comfort, but some comfort nonetheless – in that his old self is resurfacing, in however small measure. And in here, we can speak and act openly, also, away from the eyes and ears of anyone else, be they mundane people or magicions.

The door clicks shut behind us, and the wards against scrying and eavesdropping are instantly up. He is embracing me loosely with an arm now, massaging the base of my skull lightly with two fingers, silent and patient albeit distant – a pale echo of my uncle and mentor and protector, but still _he_ nonetheless. The touch of the tip of his fingers become the centre of my consciousness, the virtual lifeline, with which I am pulling myself out of the numbness and the irrational dread. It soothes me. And the fact that I cannot see his hands now and cannot smell his scent very well given the way he is embracing me is another kind of relief on its own; he knows that his scent is somewhat different now, although this one change was not that of his making, and I also suppose that he … suspect, perhaps … that the sight of his now so-lean, claw-like fingers terrifies me on some level, makes me remember of how tightly he clutched and yanked at the enchanted ropes that bound him, struggling with desperate fierceness even as _they_ pushed chunks of _her_ flesh down his screaming throat and taunted him about getting closer with his deceased dragon.

He guides me forward. My knees bump against a chair. He pushes me down gently, and I slump into it

I refuse to look at him even now, but for a different reason. Because now that my mind is clearing up again, I can recall – _no no no no no no no!_ I refuse to look at him _just because_ he looks too different from the Rainya Tor that my mind from beyond eight decades ago knows, _just_ _that_, no _other_ reason. And he is speaking now, _speaking_, had better listen carefully …

"What news from your province? Or did you wish to speak for another matter entirely with that reluctant tone of yours back in there?" he asks in a mild tone and motions carelessly to the closed door just a yard away from us. I shrug.

"The same," I say flatly, mindlessly – try not to think, try not to think – "But Orri's glad the rebels aren't making a move on any of the settlements … yet." Not think about it, not think about it, just report – "Dras Leona is the same, boring same. Orri still wishes to get rid of those brain-sick priests too."

"But we cannot. They keep the population and the people in check, and we do need their 'Old Ones' for our purposes, sadly enough."

"Orri knows that. – But Belatona is thriving now, after that new fishing tecnic," I continue doggedly, as if he did not cut in-between my words; do not wish for any argument to erupt now, too dangerous.

"Really?" he chuckles. I shiver. I never like the tinge of sinister mockery that he often adopts now in place of the cynical teasing that his old self was prone to give me in the past. The current tone is … grating on my nerves, the wrong thing to feel between kin and kin, even though just by adoption. (But whom else do – _did_ – we have save by adoption, really? Sad orphans that we were – _are_.) I clench my fists and grit my teeth.

"Really," I say in my firmest-but-blandest tone, which I know from past and more present experiences to be equally grating on his nerves. (He always said that it was quite insolent to be spoken by such an obedient lad, and I would retort that I was never the manivestation of obedience in my whole life anyway, and then we would argue fiercely about terminologies and such.) I know that it is a dangerous move to take at present, but I cannot help it. He unfortunately knows _too well_ of my weaknesses.

"Rainya knows Orri would rather go anonymous about that, no?" I continue after just half a moment, hoping he will not be too upset, hoping he will not pursue the matter further.

A _very familiar_ laugh fills my ears. I look up with a start, staring wide-eyed at the changed man sitting opposite me. _Everything_ in him is still so different from the Rainya Tor from my past; but I would recognise _that_ laugh _anywhere_: light, rich, like falling rain dancing on the branches and knocking playfully on the wooden shingles of a roof.

"How if I were to ask you to reveal who the inventor was to the people there?" – Even his voice and tone is the one I was quite used to: lazily teasing for reactions at which he could laugh some more, lightly fishing for answers that he could use for his own purposes meanwhile, eager and gleeful like I always imagine _only_ a mischievous young lad should be able to say.

"Hey!" I squawk, half-way rising from my seat with agitation, although I cannot help a grin from stretching out the edges of my lips. And his laugh turns uproarious, ringing in the small room in pleasant echoes.

"Hey, what?" he retorts. Something boyishly eager and gleeful is shining from the depths of those changed eyes now, makes them softer, makes them younger, makes them much, much more familiar and dear to me even though they are no longer the turquoise orbs that I remember from the past.

But a hesitant three-time knocking is sounding throughout the room now, and our sudden, secret mirth is shattered and gone like a tiny icicle crushed in one cruel hand, and he returns to be the King, _Galbatorix_, and Áltor the Uncle, Áltor the Brother, Áltor the Mentor is gone again without a trace.

Anger is swirling in his eyes now, and I have to restrain myself from looking away. (He never likes it, whoever and whatever he is at the moment.) The three-time knocking sounds through the oaken panel of the door again now, and I can feel and _taste_ the wild currents of energy swirling in-beat with the anger – the raw, vicious, mindless anger of a powerful predator gone mad that I can see is ready to erupt.

"Shall I get the door, Sir?" I ask – breathe out, afraid to speak louder, afraid to disturb the all-too-powerful, mindless wildness that is residing _too close_ to me. No longer my uncle, just my _king_, my commander – an insane one at that.

He hisses, does not seem to like my tone, or perhaps does not like my way of addressing him now. I stiffen, ready to flee – if I even can.

"Leave it," he snarls. "I have an assignment for you." His tone seems to say: "If you would no longer acknowledge me as your uncle now, then I am your _king_, and you still belong to _me_, and now you _must_ obey me more than ever."

I must be looking surprised and reluctant and pained now, for he sneers at me, seeming to be enjoying his perceived retaliation quite much. "You have been lazing about in that little home of yours for too long," he spits out. "We are here to govern the people, not to get ourselves fat and useless."

I bristle; the acquisition stings me badly; but I bite my tongue and hide my clenched fists in the side pockets of my trousers, try my best to remind myself that he _is not_ my uncle right now, he is not, he is not, he is just a maddened shell who is unfortunately _the King_ to whom I pledged my loyalty to seventy-four years ago.

"Then what is your assignment for me, Sir?" I bite out. Not good … I cannot hide my own anger, not good –

He stands up. I stand up also.

A fist is flying fast towards me. I duck. It connects _hard_ with my left temple. I gasp and topple back into the chair, sprawled in a graceless heap and totally under his mercy, feeling so, so dazed and shocked.

"Obey me, ungrateful brat, or I shall lift my protection from your pitiful hide and – " he is growling venomously.

"Yes, I obey, my lord," a groaned response escapes my lips; I cannot prevent it, do not want to, on some level, feeling somehow belligerent.

"I told you, _do_ _not_ _ever_ _call_ _me_ _that_," he hisses, stalks towards me, shakes me in his claw-like hands – but I can hear a tinge of anguish in his voice – and then I know only pain – no, _agony_, millions of little white-hot knives stabbing my flesh and melting in my blood, coursing to all over my being. My throat vibrates, I hear a faint knocking sound, hear a faint echoing scream – who is screaming?

I slump in a chair – my seat? I do not know; I am feeling quite disorientated. Pain is now like a persistent ghost haunting my body and mind, like the faint scream that now echoes just in my head. – A door jerks open, a man squeaks in terror farther away from me, the same voice is pleading desperately – cut away, the door jerks close.

So silent. Ringing silent. So empty. Too empty.

I stir: muscles protesting. I grimace: muscles protesting there too. I groan: throat feels so raw, so painful, grating, like acid being poured down it. What has just happened?

Three-time knocking on the door.

There was that sound too before this, right?

Rapid – nervous, agitated – knocking on the door, softer than before.

Then silence, again.

What is happening? What is going on outside? Who just knocked?

I shift, groan, shift again, whimper – cannot help it! My head is pounding and my body feels like being … being …

Electricuted?

But I did not say –

Oh. Oh oh oh oh. No wonder I was in this much trouble. Stupid Orri. I said "my lord" to _him_, I called him "my lord." But how could I know that to him it was on par with calling him "Your Majesty"? I have got one insane uncle.

Insane, unfamiliar, unrecogniseable uncle, to whom I shall have to grovel and bribe and sweet-talk again soon so that he would hopefully forgive me and cease plotting more forms of misery to punish me for that stupid mistake.

But it is a boon on itself that nobody is in this chamber with me, as I am crawling painstakingly to the door and kneeling and scrabbling and scrambling just to get to the door-knob. Damn. I have forgotten how _agonisingly_ painful and stiff my _entire body_ can feel after being electrocuted by him. This is on par with that torture of a healing session Né'a put me under!

No no no no no no _no_ – I may not think about her, _anything_ about her. I was just injured, and there were several healers working on my injuries at the same time. That is it, no more and no less. That is _just_ _that_.

I stretch carefully, try to ignore all the dagger-pain twinges and the burn-pain deluge barraging my muscles, try to ignore the apprehension churning my innards. There is the door-knob to try to open with these pain-stiff fingers that do not really wish to try, after all. And then there is my no-longer-here, no-longer-there uncle to deal with.

The world can be such a twisted place to survive and endure in, yes.


	7. 6: Cadoc

Poisoned Truths  
Book 2  
By: Eärillë

6. Cadoc

Rating: PG-13 (T)  
Warnings: family drama, mild sensitive topics, minor character death  
Genres: Character Study, Drama, Framed Story, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy  
Word Count: 2,192

Morning, Day 24 of Summer, Year 74 of Second Age, Year 874 of Human Age  
_Cadoc's House, Carvahall Village, Palancar Valley_

The house is strangely empty; it feels so to me, at least. Even after living for three years in this Empire-forsaken village, I still cannot accustom myself with – cannot grasp the notion of – how impossibly quiet, how impossibly peaceful the world can be. Belatona and Ceunon were never so silent in the morning, let alone Teirm; and we lived in those cities for ten years. The closest environment I got to experience was when I was still a toddler and lived in Melian with Father. But I am now forty-six years old, and memories of my early childhood have been long drowned by both time and the more recent, far-more-horrible events.

The birds are twittering noisily outside. Now that I am awake, I shall not be able to go back to sleep with their high-pitched noises in my ears. (They can be worse than Selena's screams when Garrow proffers her little insects, toads and caterpillars. The day is beginning anew, and summer is setting in. If Carina were here, she would have prepared the appropriate breakfast and called us to it by its mere aroma, and then the four of us would eat together in preparation for the sweaty, steadily-warming day ahead. If … Just if.

It has been three years. But in my mind it has only been three days – no, three _hours_. I brought our children here, to an environment most different from Ceunon, to flee from memories of her presence; but I am failing horribly at it so far. She is always beside me when I sleep, at the table when we eat, laughing when I scold Selena for cavorting with her friends in the river and berate Garrow for scaring his older sister with his little creatures –

The river …

I yank open the shutters and stick my head out into the summer morning light, try to focus on the warm yellow-white beam that filters down from the branches of the apple tree outside the window, try to inhale the scent of warm earth that has only been partially cooled by the absence of the sun just hours ago.

But I cannot help it: I shudder, see the sky dark with storm clouds, hear and feel the wind whistling furiously in-between the houses a distance away, hear the Ninor River raging so near, feel the hungry, powerful mirky water trying to sweep my feet from under me, feel the rainwater drenching my entire body and blurring my vision, feel my throat crying out Carina's name in vain over and over again.

So _cold_.

It was spring, and the Ninor River was flooding from all the ice that melted far in the big, mysterious forest north of Ceunon. Carina had forgotten the two baskets of fish that I had caught just hours before, and wished to retrieve them so that my efforts would not be in vain and we would have something to sell later. I pleaded for her not to go, ordered her even, and at last threatened her with locking her in our bedroom until the river was safe to approach again. But she dashed out before I could stop her and went to our boathouse by the river while other people fled from it, and the maddened river that had been my friend took her.

The river took her far away. One of my acquaintances who happened to have been travelling outside the city returned with her body days later, already rotting and nearly unrecogniseable as my sweet, beautiful Carina. He told me he had found the body near Yazuac! _Leagues_ away from here, and she was still clutching the baskets, with the remnence of some of the fish still inside them.

I vowed there and then that I would not make a living out of _any_ river again, and I shall _never_ eat fish any longer.

Three years ago … It was three –

"Father?"

A hand on my elbow. I flinch and whirl around, gasping.

Selena. Selena is there, standing before me, a concerned look on her face, so like _Carina_: young, beautiful, lively, eager for everything, intelligent –

"Father? Are you all right?"

Even her voice is sweet like Carina's, like the bard's young daughter that took my heart more than a decade ago, whom I wedded without the total approval of her father and many others in Belatona given the large age gap between the two of us.

I give her a smile. It must look wrong however, for my daughter frowns. "Father?" she inquires again, uncertain but curious. I shake my head.

"I shall be all right soon, sweetie," I tell her.

But I do not meet her gaze: shrewd like her mother's, brown like her mother's, concerned _too much_ like her mother's.

"Have you prepared breakfast, dear?" I ask her instead. She is still standing there in front of me, irked at her father's reticence perhaps. She is not used to being ignored, yes; I cannot help it: she looks and behaves too much like her mother that I often found myself favouring her over Garrow – my poor little son, robbed off his mother's love and care at such a tender age – after Carina was – no no no no no no –

"Yes, Father, but it is only bread and cheese," she grumbles. "We traded our last jar of butter four days ago, remember? We don't have anything to trade off again now. You've even traded off that nice big iron pan we brought from Ceunon." Is that whining I am hearing from the lips of my daughter?

Displeasure pushes off grief from my heart for the time being. I look down and meet her gaze at last. "What did I say about whinging for things, daughter?" I tell her in my sternest tone and manner, as I lift her chin up with the tip of my right forefinger.

Because _this_ I cannot tolerate even coming from my favoured child. Before his death on the hand of pirates in Teirm more than two decades ago, my father whispered into my ear a secret that he had born thus far without my knowledge, the motivation behind why he had taught me to read and write and behave mannerly, even though the shipping-and-fishing company that was inherited to me by my maternal grandfather then did not really need such things to operate well.

We were – we _are_ – the direct descendents of the last king of the Broddring Kingdom, King Angrenost, whose inheritance have been robbed by Galbatorix three quarters of a century ago, who have been forced to flee from place to place and live as commoners because of _him_.

We do not beg, we do not receive charity, we do not rage like a bull, we do not whinge like a brat: we are from noble lineage and must behave accordingly.

And _both_ of my children know that.

"Not to act like a brat," Selena grumbles again. I frown at her. She is sounding even more like a brat than before.

"And what did I say about taking charity from people?" I insist.

She pouts. "Not to take any from them," she repeats in a flat voice.

I box her right ear with my left hand, just hard enough to make known of my displeasure at her current attitude. "And are we starving so far?" I ask. She utters a protesting sound, pries my fingers off of her ear, then shakes her head.

"But what shall we sell next, Father?" she challenges, once she has taken a couple of steps back away from me.

I can feel my frown deepening into a scowl. No, not good, not good at all.

"Let us just see about it later," I say shortly. "Now, has your brother woken up yet?"

"I've put him at the table. But last time I checked, he's still sleeping," she answers.

I grunt an affirmative, stride to the bedroom door and past it to the hall. But Selena is not following, so I retrace my steps and take her hand in mind, towing her towards the kitchen – intending too, trying to.

"Father?" she asks timidly when I give her a questioning stare. She refuses to budge from where she has been standing, even though I have tugged at her hand several times already.

"What?" I grumble. What is wrong with her this morning? She was so caring, and then belligerent, and then as timid as a mouse.

I am used to her caring side; the gods forbid, but she does have her rebellious moments too; but this new side of her is alien, unfitting in my cherished daughter, and I am made unnerved by it.

She looks down to our intertwined hands. I force her to look back at me. "What?" I repeat, in a tone I hope is more gentle and sincere than before.

Something in her gaze is hardening, changing those soft doe eyes into a surface that reminds me of packed, unyielding dirt.

"May I go to the Anora this morning, Father?" she asks at last.

I gape, stunned.

The _River_! _She_ wants to _go_ to the _river_!

"Tara and Ismira and Birgit want to swim there. The water is calm and – "

"No," I growl, shaking her a little by the front of her blous. "Have you lost your mind, child? Don't you remember what happened just _three years ago_ to your mother?"

"But it was in Ceunon, not _here_! And you said so: it's _three years ago_! It was in spring too," she retorts. My spitfire little girl is back, but I do not like where this conversation is leading to, not at all, but I cannot stop it too, cannot stop the horrible memories and the horrible thoughts of losing my only daughter, the child that looks and behaves _too much_ like the other half of my life that I lost in _the river_ then, the same place that –

"Father! Father! Please, I shan't go to day. Please, just calm yourself!"

I blink. I have only realised it: My chest are heaving, my breaths are coming hard and fast, blood seems to have been drained from my head, and I am now supporting myself upright by clinging to her small shoulders.

My daughter, she is still here.

And she is looking at me with terror in her eyes – open wide like a doe about to be shot by a hunter.

What did I do to her to cause such look on her face?

I let go of her shoulders and inhale a shaky breath. I look away from her, towards the open window instead. I cannot stand witnessing her terrified look.

"I apologise, daughter," I murmur, but do not turn back towards her. "Go if you wish. Just … just … return back home if the currents are too strong." I gulp back my own terror, of the hungry water that took Carina and nearly took me as well – "Don't … don't swim there. Just sit on the banks or something. I cannot bear to lose you so close to – " I stop. I cannot go on, tired, and petrified by thoughts of the Anora swallowing my Selena and bringing her away, perhaps towards the Spine, just like when the Ninor swallowed my Carina and brought her broken and rotting to Yazuac.

A pair of small hands wind around my waist from behind, squeeze, then let go. Soft footsteps padding away.

No verbal answer, neither denial nor affirmation.

She shall defy me then.

But I cannot stop her, do not have the heart to.

I wonder if Carina could, if she were here.

But then again, Carina is _dead_, and by the sister-river of which her daughter wishes to play in now.

I always forbade Selena and Garrow to come any closer to the Anora, and they have obeyed me so far. But what has changed?

I look up and snarl soundlessly at the thatched roof above. My life has never been easy, but it has never been this hard also. If I had an army at my command, I would bring them down upon the Capital and seize the throne so I could be king and Selena could be queen after me. But that wishful thought is just as painful as wishing that the river would spare my daughter's life just because her sister had taken the girl's mother three years ago.

I need some action. I need to divert Selena away from the river, from that alluring call that has taken her mother away from me. There has been enough rain so far (I shudder; rain … river … ) and the ground is rich with water. I shall till our patch of farm this morning and she shall aid me by making our cow consent to help me plough the area.

Yes, yes, I can do that.

I leave my bedroom of three years once more, but with a renewed purpose.

The farm is not going to be wasted this summer, our lives will go on because of it, and meanwhile _none_ of my children shall _ever_ go any near to _the river_.


	8. 7: Selena

Poisoned Truths  
Book 2  
By: Eärillë

7. Selena

Rating: PG (K+)  
Warnings: filler chapter, teenage argument, teenage rebellion  
Genres: Action, Character Study, Drama, Fantacy, Friendship, Tragedy  
Word Count: 1,214

Afternoon, Day 24 of Summer, Year 74 of Second Age, Year 874 of Human Age  
_The bank of the Anora River, the Outskirts of Carvahal Village, Palancar Valley_

"Where were you?"

"What've you been doing?"

"We're done here. Do you want to go to my house instead?"

"We've been waiting for ages for you!"

"The river was perfect for swimming. But now it's too hot. Morn won't like it if – "

I cannot prevent the bout of giggling from escaping my lips on the last part of the barrage, which is – quite unfortunate for her – Tara's. She glares at me, but her cheeks blush like ripe tomatoes, quite stark on her fair complexion, and that only makes me giggle harder.

"Serves you right," I retort half-heartedly, my hands akimbo. And indeed, I have _just_ rounded the stand of trees by our favourite part of the bank, and I have already been bombarded by grumbles and complaints and questions. Perhaps this is what Father felt this morning – ah, I had better not think about him right now. I am … not feeling quite positive towards him at the moment.

"Serves you right too," Tara snaps, jabbing a finger at my chest. The rosy shade has not left her pretty face – I like it, she looks more beautiful like this, as if she were not the daughter of a seamstress and living in such a backwoods village …

"Oi, dreamer!" Birgit calls, laughing – cackling.

And just so, I find myself flying through the air and shrieking and splashing into the water and kicking frantically against the currents and gasping for air and choking and screaming in my head, `_No no no no no no no no no no no no no!_`

Hands lifting me, dragging me, towing me from the water, patting my back – "Hey hey hey, easy there, Lenna. It wasn't that deep you know. Why didn't you just swim?" – Birgit, sounding panicked herself and perhaps a little guilty.

I cannot answer. I am still gasping and coughing, and choking because of trying to do both. My heart is still pounding frantically too, and my mind is still in the river, feels how the currents are carrying me away, feels how I cannot breathe, cannot let go of the water, can find neither bottom nor surface – no no no, _were_, right? _Could not_? I am breathing now, still breathing, not like Mother – no no no, later, I _may not_ think things like that now that I am so close to – no no no …

But how will Father react to my being thoroughly wet like this? I told him I was just going to go to Elain's house to recuperate from the hardwork we were putting in our tiny farm this morning. I planned to go to Elain's house first and ask her to accompany me for a while on the riverbank or at least support me when Father checs for my whereabout. Now no ruse is available, and it is _totally_ obvious that I have been from the river. I can only wish that it would rain soon.

But the sky is blueish white up there, and there is not even a tiny, fluffy cloud in sight, so it is like wishing for a Dragon Rider to come by here. Bah.

I glare with what I hope as a wounded look at Birgit, then snaps, "My mum died not a long time ago drowning in a river. What do you think?"

She looks hurt, guilty still but hurt, and I would like to deny that I do not enjoy it, but I cannot do it to myself.

"I didn't know, all right?! You were perfectly fine swimming with us, even jumping down just like this with Ismira," she snaps back, now with a hard look on her strong-boned face. "Excuse me if I didn't know you wanted to be Daddy's little prissy pretty today."

My hand itches. I want to slap her, to drive away those hurtful words; but she is gone before I can even move my hand: scrambling away from the boulder she has been sitting on while tending to me, then streaking away down the path rounding the stand of trees that is our privacy barrier from the rest of Carvahall. I want to shout after her, to hurl insults that I know will make her just as offended as I am, but my tongue is strangely laden and my lips cannot move. I cannot even pick up a stone to hurl at her in place of words. Instead, my eyes get warm and my sight gets blurry.

Great. Now the rest will tell me I am a cry-baby and a pushover too.

I cannot stand it.

I wipe at my eyes, turn towards the river, and jump into the moving currents of slightly-mirky water with a great push of my feet and knees right from my seated position.

I hear Tara and Ismira cry out in alarm up on the river bank, faintly, as the wind and the water rush in my ears, but I do not care. I shall _show_ them. I am not "Daddy's little prissy pretty." What do girls from such a backwoods village know of somebody being that type of girl anyway? They do not know even _a quarter_ of my life!

The tips of my fingers break the surface of the rippling water, then my head, then my shoulders, then my chest, then my belly, then my thighs, then my calves, then my feet – I am fully submerged now, again, but this time I have anticipated it and I can time everything.

I like things that I can expect. Do not they realise that by now? And they call themselves my _friends_!

A powerful kick of my legs and a powerful swipe of my arms, again, again, again, again – my head breaks the surface, my arms follow close behind, and I half leap out of the water with the last powerful kick of my legs.

I like doing this, regardless whether my friends are watching or not. I like being the young, intelligent mermaid in stories, who also explores the land instead of only the sea – the only world her kin know. I also like it how a prince of the land saves her and tells her he loves her and brings her away to live in his castle, because I want _that_ too. And they just call me a _dreamer_ and caution me that, even in the story, the prince actually cheats on the mermaid, always like that, and then the mermaid either kills him before she kills herself or just dies out of heartbreak.

Tara and Ismira are watching me with an uncertain expression on their faces, I see as I am turning around to head back to the riverbank.

I shall show them someday. I shall go away from this wretched place and get myself a good man to love me – and perhaps to be loved by me too. He shall not cheat against me, because I shall not allow that. And then I shall show him to them all, show us to these narrow-minded people, show that dreams can be reality with just a few _real_ efforts.

And for the first step, I shall show them how to cheat against one's river-phobic father without him ever knowing.

I shall find a way. I shall succeed.

I have to, anyway.


	9. 8: Morzan

Poisoned Truths  
Book 2  
By: Eärillë

8. Morzan

Rating: Heavy-R (Heavy-M)  
Warnings: brief semi-graphic torture (in the end), dark themes, dark thoughts, heavily implied torture (for the most part)  
Genres: Action, Framed Story, Horror, Suspense  
Word Count: 2,034

Afternoon, Day 24 of Summer, Year 74 of Second Age, Year 874 of Human Age  
_Underground Prison at the King's Palace, the Citadel, Urû'baen;  
Torture Chamber at the Underground Prison of the King's Palace, the Citadel, Urû'baen_

The 'assignment' was scrolled out in a missive roll left lying on the floor just beyond the door, it turned out. And to add insult to the mental and physical injuries, it was one of the _worst_ Rainya Tor could have put me through.

And even worse, the content of the curt, infuriating message refuses to leave my mind, burning itself with stark detail – blood-red on bone-white – on my mental sight.

_Formora has kindly found you a Varden spy to practise your skills on. Do not disappoint me. You should kindly thank her afterwards for this good chance, also._

There was no visible signature anywhere in that scrap of paper that was a waste of the leather missive tube, and there was also no certain name of addressee scrolled anywhere there. But I recognise the 'ink' that had been used on the missive: blood: _his_ blood, which he uses to pen his letters _only_ to whomever he considers his family members, ever since far beyond the time I was born and knew him.

But familial ties notwithstanding, he always comes through with his … punishments, implied or worded out. The last time I ducked away from this 'assignment' and 'disappointed' him, he personally walked me through the 'practise' on yet another Varden spy, and then _he_ _put_ _me_ _through_ _the_ _same_ _thing_ until I begged for relief, for it all to end, with tears and sobs and screams, before he at last released me and warned me to 'practise' more and not to 'disappoint' him again. If I do not wish to endure what the hapless Varden spy is going to endure under my hand anyway, I _must_ do it.

I _hate_ this.

He has cornered me, and I _hate_ it.

And I have to _thank_ _Formora_ the Slimy for this 'gift' too?!

_Gah!_

He _knows_ I _hate_ her! And he _knows_ she has been trying to seduce and _kill_ _me_ numerous times already since _before_ the Fall!

This is one of the times I rue ever pledging myself to the person who is no longer quite my uncle anymore. He is breaking me slowly but surely, molding me into one of his likeness and one that he likes in his new, twisted perspective, warping me further than the dragon-flesh poisoning ever could. How not? He also _knows_ I _hate_ applying tortures to _anybody_, and he _makes_ me do _that_ still. He calls me too soft-hearted to be a good, stern leader by refusing to 'practise' those 'skills' but it is _not_ _true_! This is just pointless! One can just break into the spy's mind if one wishes to attain the information needed and even more than that, and in consequence it will be much more thorough and detailed than if one does it by torture as well. What is the point of that prolonged, filthy, messy, nerve-racking business then? Except to satisfy one's sick pleasure in mutilating struggling bodies and humiliating helpless wretches? Is it not better to face one's enemies head-on on the field of battle and kill them outright while they are yet strong and one's equal?

My footfalls echo strangely in the underground passage deep beneath the bowels of the palace. I _hate_ it. The guards guarding each gate that I must pass to go to the torture chamber _he_ has assigned for my use look at me with mixed apprehension, awe and twisted eagerness – I _hate_ it, I _hate_ _them_, twisted loyalists of the new _king_ who is just as twisted as most of the original line of royal curs that he usurped.

I hate it _all_: each sound I hear, each view I see, each stare I receive, each word of the guards, each smell stuffing up my nose, each taste of the air – _everything_ reminds me of the _living_, _conscious_ bodies I have mutilated and one that I _shall be_ mutilating, reminds me of the blood and the bone and the open flesh and sinew messed up and torn under my dogged ministrations, reminds me of the screams – _their_ screams, and _my_ screams when I refuse to do any more of it.

I jam my hands into the pockets of my outer tunic, fisting the clothe from inside as my feet carry me further and further down the myriad of tunnels, past the sundry prison wards, and past the numerous gates with their armed-and-armoured guards, trying not to be too aware that sweat is dampening the palm of my hands and the valley between my fingers, trying to ignore the half mask in my left pocket and the key to that noisome hole in my right pocket. Damn twisted uncle – my 'suite' is right on the very end of this macabre catacomb. The first time he walked me through my very first 'assignment' and dragged me to _that_ place, I complained to him about why the way there must be so _long_ and roundabout, and he just said in that mild-but-so-infuriating manner that he has adopted after he has titled himself King of Alagaësia: "I prize you above _all_ others, and I wish for everyone to see and know that. _All_ prisoners shall quail on the very sight of you, and _all_ the wardens shall know to respect you – or I shall hear of it and act accordingly."

I felt like a mixture between a prized dog and a favourite nephew then and always afterwards, and I am _feeling_ thus as well now.

The five guards posted on the very last gate that I must go through stiffen and fall silent from their whispered conversation on my approach. Just as quickly and mutely, they arrange themselves in front of the closed doors with their backs facing the two slabs of stone engraved and painted with my personal seal – yet another morbid, twisted form of my now-deranged uncle's affection. So well-trained – _too_ well-trained. Armed and armoured like other wardens and bearing the new king's sigil on their breast: two stand on the left and two on the right, and the leader – recogniseable by the plain egg-shaped golden shield-badge pinned to his left shoulder – bars the way right on where the edges of the two stone doors meet. "Sir!" they cry out, saluting with their spears, then stamp the butt of those spears hard onto the ground. (So my reputation shall proceed me, _he_ said, and the prisoner or prisoners inside shall know 'respect' when I come in – total dread, he meant.)

Well-practised, well-rehersed: I proffer the key to the gate to the leader wordlessly: a small, long, thick cylindrical piece of wrought iron with one flat, rounded end bearing my personal sigil, wrapped in a few blood-based wards that are meant to trigger the matching wards on the doors that will open the gate. He salutes me with a cry of "Sir, yes Sir!" and a click of his heels, exchanges his spear to his left hand and accepts the key gingerly from me with his right hand, then with a low bow turns around and inserts the stupid rod into the slot meant for it half-way down the crack between the two halves of stone.

Well-oiled, oft-seen: the doors swing inward noiselessly, splitting the engraved, over-glorified image of my seal in two down the middle, exposing a pitch-black seeming void whose noisome atmosphere alone makes me want to gag.

But I step in anyway.

The doors swing outward behind me, swing close without a noise. I am trapped.

No, I have been well trapped long before this. I might just as well proceed.

My left pocket is just as empty as the right one now. The half mask is covering the top half of my face, hiding much of my features from view safe for the colours of my eyes, my lips, and my chin. I take as much comfort as I can from that, as _he_ does not allow me the luxury of not participating at all, or at least with a full mask. Besides, this half mask – that I forged myself, since _he_ did not allow me to order it from anybody – blocks out all smells from coming into my nostrils, and filters the air that I taste through my mouth. In this way nobody shall recognise who I really am – how I really look – and I shall not have to endure all the odors related to this messy activity; and I prefer that, when I am doing this cowardly thing instead of fighting head-on in a battle.

A muttered word, and a werelight comes into existence somewhere in front of me, illuminating the area before me, stopping just beyond my form, just as I like it. A gloomsome light settles in the field of my vision, and that is how I like it as well. Besides, the dim, sullen light conceals my features further. And even better, the illumination does not reveal much too: just a dusty stone floor, the silhouette of walls, doors and bars, and the equally-grubby ceiling.

I must obey, must keep him 'happy' so he will not find out.

I must obey, or next I shall be on the table and writhing and screaming and possibly breaking also. (Who knows?)

I blank out my mind, take a deep magic-filtered breath, take the first step ahead.

And plunge right in.

I proceed through all the 'steps' he 'trained' me through. No thoughts, no feelings, no sensations: just numb, in all senses of the word.

Well-trained, well-priced – well-threatened.

Well-done, the goal has been achieved: learning who the founder and leader of the Varden is. But there is no sense of achievement in it, let alone pleasure and victory. Just numb, and a rising nausea.

… Brom?

_Brom_! The leader is my adoptive _brother_!

And too much blood spilled all around, too much flesh and sinew open to the chilling air, too-loud – too-keen – screams and bone-breaks echoing in the dim-red-light-bathed chamber.

A hand stills mine. Another waves, and the still, broken body before me is lifted and deposited out of sight. A low voice whispers in my ear, "Well-done." I shiver. _Him_.

Magic tightens around me, restrains me, constrains me, petrifies me.

Primal terror takes over me.

A low, bitter chuckle drifts into the same ear, then: "Well-done, for the first time, after _decades_. But I wonder why you would suddenly like to please me. I wonder if I can … tease it out of you."

He _suspects_!

He is going to – _no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no!_

I try to scream, try to struggle, try to form any word, any spell, any defence, any thought – try to escape, _have to_.

But I cannot think, cannot talk, cannot move, cannot breathe.

He strips me down from head to foot, lays me on the blood-bathed stone slab, fits the still-warm manacles around my spread wrists and spread ankles.

_Uncomfortable_, _exposed_, _humiliated_, _terrified_, _vulnerable_, _violated_, _mentally molested_.

"Now, let us see if you are going to talk to me after this one," he whispers into the same ear, and my chest heaves but cannot breathe still. Animalistic terror has overtaken everything. Cannot think, cannot talk, cannot do anything.

He runs a cold finger down my forearm.

It snaps, breaks.

I scream, breathe at last, choke down the stench of blood and body fluids and body wastes and burnt flesh and _him_.

He chuckles, shifts lower down the table, runs another cold finger down my shin.

It snaps, breaks.

I gurgle and heave, bile clogging my throat, dim-red-light-filled sight and awareness flickering with intense pain.

"Are you ready to talk now?" he questions, mildly. Magic – _his_ magic – on my throat. Can breathe again, but must not ttalk.

I am silent.

He sighs, steps away, skirts the table to the other side, runs a cold hand down my other shin.

It snaps with three sounds, breaks.

I howl.

Warm, sticky wetness around the area of my hips, stench of body waste.

But I _must not_ talk, must not say, not now, not ever.

A cold hand, a pervous caress, down my left arm from shoulder to wrist.

Sound of bone-breaks, _many_.

Burning, piercing agony.

Oblivion.


	10. 9: Alna

Poisoned Truths  
Book 2  
By: Eärillë

9. Alna

Rating: PG-13 (T)  
Warnings: dark themes, implied torture and violence, moderate violence, sensitive topics  
Genres: Action, Character Study, Dark Fluff, Framed Story, Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy  
Word Count: 2,065

Evening, Day 26 of Summer, Year 74 of Second Age, Year 874 of Human Age  
_Hill at Morzan's Stronghold, Northwest of Leona Lake, Foothills of the Spine_

None of the servants and guards dare approach the hill where … well, where Orri's dragon – I wish I _remember_ her name – roosts, although they confessed of no direct command from their master not to come any close to the place, unlike what he did to some sections of the grounds. I did not understand because, before the Fall, any dragon resting on the ground would be quickly ambushed by adoring crowds, be they elves or humans.

But now I do understand.

The red dragon touches down on the violently-turned-up soil of the hilltop with a jarring thump, looking at present like a blood-bathed small hill herself under the dying summer sunlight. She looks far from majestic now though; she does not even look and feel like a dragon at all to my senses: She is like a red-died giant lizard who is terribly angry – madly angry – and terrified and confused – disorientated – at the same time. And on top of her shoulders sits a slump figure in tattared and bloody clothes with a naked blood-red Rider sword hanging in a slack grip in his left hand, with his black hair dirty and unkempt and fully concealing his features, with his shoulders rounded in despair and the air of brokenness and defeat acting as his cloak.

Not like a dragon, not like a Rider.

Horror, revulsion, grief, terror, and fury – fury not to the pitiful pair of dragon and Rider before me, but to those who made them so – war in me, chokes me, freezes my mind in an icy numbness.

So this is the result of what those wild dragons did – Du Namar Aurboda, the Banishing of the Names? _Sacriligious_! They have violated the sacred pact between dragons and Riders, then! I –

Her nose finds me, and her eyes follows, and the man sitting atop her stirs and straightens and looks at me with the wild eyes of a wounded, cornered wolf. Breath catches in my airway, and all muscles in my body tense in response to the unexpected, unwanted, unnerving attention. With them being maddened like this and with me being weaponless and dragonless, I am severely at a disadvantage. Worse, I am quite not in the mood of fighting anybody at present. But still, I must –

The man raises his sword, jumps – stumbles – down the giant, enraged, maddened beast, charging towards me with the red blade brandished, ready to slash, and a contorted snarl on his sickly-pale face.

Primal fear takes over me.

I stumble back, turn around, run down the hill: away, away, away, flee the hill as fast as I can.

But I am small, and he is tall and big, and she is _huge_.

Something cold and sharp slices down my back: from my right shoulder down to my left hip. Intense pain burns down the line and warm liquid travels down it from the topmost edge, sending agony along the same line.

I scream. Too sudden, too painful. My muscles clench for half a moment, then slacken and tremble, and I fall onto the ground on my knees, with my legs unable to support me any longer. Behind me, a – very, very – familiar voice lets out a broken, tortured howl, a distant, clanking sound of metal hitting a semi-hard surface fills my dimming hearing, and a dull thump whispers in my ears as a soft tremor travels through my shaking knees.

So familiar, too familiar.

My son?

But if it were he, then _he_ has been the one who has just bladed open my back – !

So dizzy, so nauseated, so painful: burning, piercing, throbbing pain – my knees lose their strength and my body slams onto the grassy dirt.

I would howl myself if I were not choking on the agony, as the gash is jarred by my fall. But I let out a gagging sound anyway, and shamed by it.

All is silent.

Too silent.

But there are still two presences behind me. Strange.

My awareness flickers, dims.

I cannot hold on, black out.

My awareness flickers, brightens.

Sharpens … No pain? Where is the pain? It was _agony_. Now _nothing_ is there, not even the slight cuts and bruises on my knees and elbows resulting from my staggered fall.

I hold my breath. It is not so silent anymore. Odd. A keening noise – I hear a pair of keening voices, and a somewhat-familiar low growl. What – who is – are? – keening? Why? Pained? Grieving? Wounded?

There were two presences. There are still two presences. But the two are closer together now, and they are closer to where I have fallen, to where I am still sprawled at present.

My chest squeezes. My awareness flickers alarmingly again, this time because of the furthering of the lack of fresh air in my lungs. But I cannot help it. Although the pain – the agony – is no longer there, the memory is still there. Although the burn – _Where_ is the _burn_?!

Where is it? Where is it gone to?!

_Orri – !_

I gasp, scramble to all-fours, scramble to my knees, pivot around.

And gape.

The red dragon is _so near_, just a snout-reach away. The low growling and one of the keening sounds are hers – a dragon's – yes, now I realise and remember it. But the other – there is somebody pinned under her right-foot claws, face-down and sprawled helplessly _even nearer_ to me, as if the person – the man? – was in the process of reaching for me with his hand.

Empty hand.

Where is the sword?

And he is _bleeding_.

Bleeding on his _back_.

Black, long, thick, tangled hair; a knuckle of finger missing from his right hand's middle finger; dirty, tattared long-sleeved tunic, cloth trousers and leather boots concealing most of everything from view.

_Orailesk_.

I swing my right foot, freeze on midstep in the air, have just remembered that _he_ is _pinned_ _under_ a _dragon's talon_, a most-likely-less-than-sane dragon at that.

I return my foot to its former position, turn my attention to the dragon, regard her silently, try to ignore the keening and the growling and my own fears, wait for her to acknowledge me, as taught by the Code of the Dragon Riders during my training days. (She used to greet me before I could greet her anyway, before this, as we all still lived as a huge, mismatched-looking family.)

But she is regarding me just as silently: no longer so wild but too passive, too mindless, too wary, too timid for my peace of mind.

"Don't you recognise me?" Just a whisper: a tremulous, silent whisper. I cannot make my voice steady, cannot make my voice louder, cannot even look at her now. Grief and horror choke all thoughts and all breath from me. She was so lively in her own way, so cunning and intelligent, so witty and playful, so eager and curious about everything, so earnest and wordlessly sincere in the open, frank, straightforward manner of a childlike being, just like Orri himself when in the presence of his family alone. But now …

A rough-scaled nose bumps against my own short, small nose. The tip of a rough-surfaced tongue swipes at the side of my neck. Sniffing, tasting, just like Orri, just like … like _her_, before all the madness and ferocity of hidden, long-buried grudges were let loose and exploded in those … those _years_, those years of distruction and savagery and revolution and breaking and scattering and grief and loss.

I put my arms around the proffered snout, plant my face onto the small, rough scales, inhale a deep breath, savour it, keening myself – grief: deep grief, wordless grief, unexplainable, piercing like a hot, jagged, poisoned knife.

I cannot remember her _name_, but I can remember her _scent_. _Nobody_ shall _ever_ tear that from me. _They_ have already torn most of her identity away; but they did not take this from her, from him, from me, and I am glad to find out.

She called me "Né'a," when she had her mental voice, when she had her words, when she had her thoughts and plans and pranks and humanoid emotions. Orailesk, seven years old and fiercely loving and loyal and caring and proud and close to the little blood-red-scaled hatchling, insisted that she be also my child, his twin sister in fact despite my insisting back that she was born seven years after he had been born himself; and then I heard her voice in my head for the first time, saying just one word: "Né'a" – solemn, simple, sincere, open, _matter-of-fact_.

He told me then, proudly and honestly and frankly and with a lit-up, beaming face that he rarely displayed to _anybody_, that it had been the second word she could utter, the first being "Orri."

I could not say no. I _would not_ say no, not with how highly he regarded her, not with how highly she regarded me, not when I had been taking care of her alongside my own son anyway, given how he refused to part with her all day and night even when – no, _especially_ – when he was sleeping. So she became my other child, my first daughter, my son's first sister, his _younger_ twin – I insisted on that – and it staid that way till we faced each other as semi-enemies in that wretched battle outside Dorú Araeba.

And even until beyond that.

Because there is no ex-parent, no ex-child.

Mothers and females and hatchlings and eggs are regarded highly among the dragons, rooted in their psyche; and perhaps, not even those _vicious, idiotic, imbisilic, thoughtless, heartless, mindless_ wild dragons that caused all this dared to go against this one law as well. Because somehow, she still recognises me. Because now she is crouched down in an almost-relaxed manner, settling on her haunches and licking my cheeks, replacing my tears with a little bit of her saliva.

I wonder if she still remembers Enn my own 'twin', if she still remembers Talita her egg-mother …

But she has not let go of Orri, and I need to tend to him.

Because there is no ex-parent, no ex-child, despite of _everything_.

"Would you let Orri go, please?" I ask her, wheedle, glad that my voice is nearly back to normal. "I have forgiven him, you know; You should, too. We just lost our minds for a little while, yes? But he is your brother, and I am your mother, and we are back again now, _together_."

I extend a tendril of thought tentatively, gingerly, seeking for hers, wanting her to know – no, wanting to _reunite_ with her.

And then I am awashed in disorientating, disconcerting, powerful, wild, vivid sensations, trapped in her mind and looking at myself from her point of view: her new way of acknowledging me, perhaps – and her new way of acquiescing to my request too, because she is shifting now, lifting her right forefoot from on top of her Rider – no, her _twin brother_.

But somehow, I do not mind being subjected to this reeling experience of merging my consciousness with hers, not so much, not as much as it is safe, perhaps, but I rarely care about my own safety.

If she is only able to express herself like this now, then so be it. I shall accept it as it is; because she is my daughter, and there is nothing and nobody that can change that.

Orri shies away from my hands, keening louder, choking, flailing when I ignore his attempt to escape me and hook my arms around his armpits anyway, hauling the top of his body onto my lap.

But he freezes, falls silent, when I gather water from the dewy air around us and bathe his wound, and then heal it – heal what should have been inflicted on my back. And he goes limp as I shift the top of his body higher, put his head on my right shoulder as my arms encircle his torso and support him half-upright. And as I kiss his exposed left ear, he takes a deep, shuddering inhale with his nose pressed against my neck.

I smile against his ear. A long moment later, he smiles against my neck. And above us, his self-proclaimed twin sister embraces us with one red wing and nestles her nose on the junction between our heads.

Sometimes, words unsaid feel better than the sweetest, deepest of poems.


End file.
